Le Fantôme et La Galopine
by Cassop
Summary: A street urchin, driven by the need to find shelter, invades the solitude of the decaying Opera House... a mistake that the Phantom feels obliged to rectify.


**A Gutter in Paris, Octobre 1874**

The dog simply wouldn't leave.

If it had been a graceful sort of creature, Léonie wouldn't have minded the way it cringed at her sides, an unlikely shadow. It might have even gained her a few more _centimes_ if the hound skulking at her heels had large eyes and was appropriately appealing. No such luck. It was a _mélange_ of unhappy breeding and uncertain parentage.

Léonie's lip curled in disgust. "_Va-t-en_, mutt!" she muttered. The dog cocked its narrow head as though considering her command, and then decided to ignore her. She scowled. "Didn't you hear me, you mongrel? You're chasing people away from my plot. _Fiche-moi le camp!_" This time, it didn't deign to lift its head from its overlarge paws.

The young woman stamped her feet in an effort to regain the feeling in her numb feet, and then rubbed them roughly. The rags bound around them worked well as makeshift shoes in the summer, but did nothing to keep her warm as the season turned ever colder. It wasn't unheard of for _galopins_ to lose toes and fingers in the harsh winters. Léonie had begun to inspect her feet nightly, dreading the blackening skin and stench that heralded frostbite.

She exhaled sharply. For over a fortnight, the mongrel had dogged her footsteps, silently following her each night to where she collapsed to sleep, and awake and ready when she arose to start her day. The meagre coins she'd collected since then couldn't amount to more than a franc or two, and hadn't stretched to fill the gnawing feeling of an empty belly.

Léonie tapped her fingers impatiently against her stolen breeches, scanning the square for anyone likely in need of a service. She couldn't bring herself to strike the mutt. There was something about its demeanour that told her a cuff would be successful in losing its misplaced loyalty - but that she might very well lose a hand in the process. She sighed.

It was hard enough to make yourself heard over the clamour of street rats trying to get the attention of those rich ladies and gentlemen. Women always needed a carriage or at the very least a litter, with the crinoline hampering their movement and reducing walking to an effort. Although the rear bustle of their dresses were somewhat amusing, Léonie couldn't deny that the sight of the sumptuous fabrics and rich colours gave her an ache deep in her belly that had nothing to do with the lack of food.

_There! _Her sharp black eyes locked onto a gentleman who was looking rather lost, escorting a slender, drooping lady. Both were wrapped well against the brutal bite of the air, and Léonie ran to them.

"Need a litter for the lady, mister?" she asked, looking meaningfully at his companion. "Nasty weather to be out and about without something to keep off the chill." The lady directed a pleading look at him, and the man glanced at her again.

"Could you find one for us, lad?" he asked in broken French. His accent was heavy and difficult to understand, but Léonie nodded.

"Of course, _m'sieur_." It didn't surprise her that he thought her a boy - far from it. It was always easier if they thought you a lad, and she dressed accordingly. She was small enough to be a boy of about twelve or thirteen, before his voice had broken, and the breeches and dingy muslin shirt only compounded the effect. She could run without getting short of breath now despite her tightly bound breasts.

"_Ma chère madame_, be guided by me, and don't waste your money on that urchin." A new voice broke into the exchange of words, and Léonie glanced heatedly at the newcomer with an ugly look on her face. A moment later, the lady straightened and gave a joyful cry.

"Everard!" She pressed his hand speakingly, and the young man tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow.

"_Tante Marie_, I had already promised to meet you both here! Neither of you are familiar with France. I have my carriage awaiting you, with a blanket to put over your knees for the short journey to my house." He remembered Léonie, but only to flick his fingers carelessly at her. "_Va-t-en_, brat."

Léonie had to gulp back her disappointment and fury, having glimpsed the coat of arms on the gentleman's carriage. It wouldn't do to insult a nobleman, that was for certain. She retreated, noticing that the weather had changed, and that there was an even sharper edge to the evening air. Time to find a place for the night, though her belly protested.

She'd exhausted most of the streets north of the Square, and had to be careful to dodge the policemen who searched the alleyways for those who chanced to sleep there. _South, _she decided, and began to walk briskly, now that she had made her choice. The patter of overgrown claws on the cobbled streets told her that her shadow still haunted her footsteps, but Léonie couldn't muster the energy to try to lose the mutt. It always seemed to find her again.

She found herself in front of the old opera house, its gutted, hollow skeleton glowering out on a Paris that seemed to glow with colour in comparison. It was grey and crumbling - a mere echo of its former glory. Léonie had heard the stories - who hadn't? - and yet, the prospect of curling up in one of the old boxes was significantly better than finding a cold patch of stone in the streets. She entered the yawning mouth that had once been the stage entrance, struggling against the ridiculous sensation of being swallowed.

Once inside, the young woman glanced curiously around. There were strange echoes, here and there, of the sumptuous elegance with which the theatre had been adorned less than a decade ago. Charred statues retained something of their carved perfection, frowning with gilded eyes at the pair who had dared invade their solitude. The large dog, with its ragged ears, black eyes and matted fur, and the weary figure with a tangled crop of curls. Black eyes set in a pale face, with its sharp lines and deep shadows etched beneath them.

"_Allô_?" she called softly into the growing gloom. Nothing but the shadows answered her. Léonie hesitated, but her eyes couldn't perceive any pale face in the darkness, nor a figure looming in the corners of her eyes. Her shoulders sagged, and dry humour flickered across her face. _Of course not._ It was ridiculous to believe that myth.

Nonetheless, the Phantom watched.

* * *

><p><span>Note from the Author<span>

So, a start. Let me know what you think - whether you want to see it continue or not, any particular parts that you enjoyed, or even (if you're a Regency French Historian) to comment on my research! I've decided to use modern french rather than trying to torture my brain into a 19th century pattern, but apart from that, I hope I've intrigued you enough that you want more.

Disclaimer: The original genius goes to Gaston Leroux, of course. I have never liked the interpretation of the film as much as the original musical; Lloyd Webber's brilliance is radiant in musical theatre - it does not do well on screen. Feel free to disagree! ;)

_Pardoe_**  
><strong>

**Glossary**

_centime_ - lowest unit of French currency in the 19th century. A hundred of these made a franc.  
><em>mélange <em>- mixture  
><em>va-t-en <em>- go away  
><em>fiche-moi le camp<em> - get lost!  
><em>galopin <em>- urchin  
><em>m'sieur <em>- (monsieur) mister, sir  
><em>ma chère madame - my dear madam<em>


End file.
